The Big Book of Espionage

by The Big Book of Espionage (retail) (epub)

  An incredulous laugh came from the bald-headed man with the fringe of iron-gray hair which encircled his head with a halo-like effect.

  “Resign,” he retorted; “that sounds like retreat, and I didn’t think that word had any place in the vocabulary of the man who ran the blockade—”

  “Never mind that,” hastily interrupted Hawksby, who feared the usual eulogy for the gallant action which had won him a gold medal and the thanks of Congress: “you know what I mean. I feel so impotent in this underhand business that I scarcely know what to do. If it was an out-and-out, face-to-face fight, I’d know just how to act. I’m depending on you to get to the bottom of the thing. Will you help me?”

  “Yes,” was the prompt reply, “but you’ve got to help me first. Now, you say the last message that was intercepted related to the movements of the Asiatic fleet. Please let me see a copy of the order.”

  The admiral pressed a button on the desk, and in a few moments a young man, with coal black hair and brown skin, entered the room.

  “Lee,” said the sailor, “get me the order book. I think you will find it in the copying press.”

  As the Admiral sat stroking his mustache and imperial, Barnes looked at him curiously.

  “Who is that man?” he asked.

  “That chap—oh, that’s a West Indian who acts as a sort of personal servant to me.”

  “Do you mean to say that he has access to the copy book and is given the run of the place?”

  Hawksby drew himself up stiffly.

  “I don’t know what you mean by the ‘run of the place’—and, besides, the orders are in code and would be Greek to him or any other man except to myself and the Secretary of the Navy.”

  Presently the messenger returned, and for the next ten minutes the two men were deeply engrossed in the intricacies of the naval code and the details of how the orders had been transmitted. Barnes asked a hundred and one questions and finally departed with the intimation that he might return and ask some more before he started in on his difficult task.

  “It all depends upon circumstances,” he said, “and, in the meantime, I’m going to take a long walk to get the cobwebs out of my head.”

  He went to his apartments near the Capitol first, and gave some general orders to his assistant and general factotum. He consulted a number of maps and then he started out on one of the long strolls which had made him as familiar with the streets of the National Capital as the famous Caliph was with the equally celebrated city of Bagdad.

  No member of the Cabinet, and not one of the foreign diplomats at Washington could have been more fastidious in his dress than this investigator who had come from his retirement to assist his Government during a critical stage in its history. The frock coat, the carefully creased trousers, the gray spats, the opal in his green tie, and the tightly rolled silk umbrella which took the place of a walking stick, were all just as they should be—or at least, just as Barnes felt they should be. He walked up one street and down another, thinking all the while of the problem that had been given into his care. A stranger, noting the cold gray eyes and the quizzical smile, would have thought him a man without a care in the world. He must have been walking for an hour when his steps led him into that section of the city known as Farragut Circle. He noticed, in a casual way, that an automobile was standing in front of one of the houses. And then an incident, seemingly insignificant in itself, roused all of his thinking faculties.

  The driver of the car had taken the cover from a sandwich. Instead of tossing it aside he carefully rolled the oiled paper into a little ball and threw it on the sidewalk. At the same moment a nattily dressed man with a waxed mustache and a pink carnation in the buttonhole of his stylish coat came down the steps of the house and picked up the discarded bit of paper. He looked up and down the street in a nervous manner, as if to make sure that he was not observed, and then turning briskly, reëntered the house. The incident did not take a minute, but to the watching Barnes it was like a drama itself. Instantly the driver of the car put his foot on the lever of the machine and it whizzed away. But in that brief time the detective had obtained the number of the machine and a mental picture of the chauffeur. He noted the number and location of the house, and then, with his quizzical smile broadening, hastened to his own apartment.

  On the morning after the incident of the oiled paper, a new janitor appeared at the apartment house on Farragut Circle. He wore a blouse and overalls and seemed to fit into the scheme of the place much better than the house itself did with the richer and more pretentious dwellings with which it was surrounded. The new tyrant of the place was most industrious and showed a desire to please that was truly amazing upon the part of a modern janitor. His round face and bald head were smudged with soot and dirt, and his features were all but recognizable. But even the evidence of praiseworthy toil could not change the cold, gray eyes and the quizzical smile which were a part of the personality of Bromley Barnes. He made friends with everybody—especially the women and children—and he had the run of the house, which was to be expected in one who was presumably charged with its destinies.

  In twenty-four hours the new janitor was familiar with the place and its occupants. No matter how unkempt he might seem himself, he showed a real desire to keep the house tidy. Residents were delighted to find a man who was willing to carry off the contents of their waste paper baskets and trash cans, and they were united in designating him as “a jewel” of a janitor. On the evening of the second day the new man sat in his quarters in the basement of the house smoking a corn-cob pipe and looking the picture of contentment. But later that night, when most of the guests were sleeping the sleep of the just, the janitor had pulled down the blinds of his own modest apartment and was restlessly pawing over scraps of paper that had been found in the waste baskets.

  For more than an hour he worked there, with a patience and a persistence beyond all praise. At the end of that time he began to show signs of weariness. But just when he seemed ready to quit, he gave a cry of delight. He had found a little scrap of oiled paper, twisted and rolled into a tiny ball. Slowly and carefully he unrolled it and spread it out on the little wooden table. It contained several typewritten lines which the old man found some difficulty in deciphering. But the hardest task has its end and finally he was able to read these significant words:

  “Gunboats Philadelphia and Newark have been ordered to join the Asiatic fleet. 200 jackies have been assigned to special duty in this connection. Ammunition in large quantities is to be shipped. More details in the next twenty-four hours.”

  Bromley Barnes gave a sigh of relief. He picked up the little scrap of paper reverently and placed it in his wallet. Then, with that quizzical smile hovering about his lips, he undressed and went to bed to enjoy a well-earned night’s rest.

  Things in the apartment house moved along in their accustomed grooves for some days. The man with the waxed mustache and pink carnation did not appear to have any occupation, yet for a man without regular employment he seemed to be amazingly busy. Percival Roberts, for by that name he was addressed, had a room near the top of the house—an attic room that by no means corresponded with his careful dress and fastidious manners. He suggested a person who spends much time at the barber’s, and regarded the manicuring of his nails as a sort of religious rite. Such a one was not likely to bestow much attention on a mere janitor, and when the bald-headed man with the cold gray eyes and the quizzical smile passed him on the stairs, Roberts did not even deign to throw a glance in his direction. There were many things that the wax-mustached person was not, but there was one thing he was—or thought he was—and that was a lady killer.

  One morning he was coming out of the house when he passed a young woman with a singularly attractive face. She had taken an apartment on the third floor back and Mr. Percival Roberts made it his business to find out all about her. Gossip flows quite as freely in the modern apartment house
as it formerly did in the less pretentious boarding house, and by putting this and that together, the young man learned a number of things. First, she was Miss Marie Johnson, and she had come from the far West for the purpose of attending an art school in Washington. Secondly, she had been quite as much taken with Mr. Percival Roberts as he had been with her. That was a hopeful beginning, and before long he had managed to make her acquaintance, and even offered to escort her to the institution where she proposed to take up the study of art. But she smilingly declined this on the ground that it was not wise to mix business with pleasure.

  In less than a week, however, the acquaintance had prospered to such an extent that Miss Johnson accepted an invitation to accompany Mr. Roberts to the theater, and after that he pressed his suit with much ardor. She did not precisely repulse him, but she tried to make him understand that she had a serious purpose in life, and that she did not propose to be diverted from the plan which had brought her to the National Capital. She let him know that she admired men with a purpose in life, and gently intimated that his indolent existence did not promise well for the woman who would consent to be his wife. The bald-headed man with the fringe of gray hair, and the cold gray eyes and the quizzical smile noticed the growing intimacy between the pair, and he merely shrugged his shoulders as much as to say that in the matter of love he could not be regarded as a competent authority. But Percival Roberts felt that when it came to the tender passion he was in his element, and he plainly was flattered at the evident impression he had made upon the studious young woman.

  It was on the evening of the fifth day that Percival found himself in the cozy sitting room of Marie Johnson, making his first formal call. He found it very pleasant there. The apartment, furnished with exquisite taste, made an appropriate setting for the girl. She was not “beautiful” in the usually accepted sense of that much-abused word. But she was undeniably fascinating. He took in every detail of the picture—and it satisfied him. Her coal black hair, parted in the middle, and glowing with life and vitality, her dark, gray eyes, full of spirit and intelligence, and the masterful manner—always feminine—in which she carried herself, convinced Percival that here at last was the one girl in the world for him. They talked of indifferent topics for some time, and finally the young man, taking her shapely hand in his, began to declare his passion. She did not withdraw her hand, neither did she show any inclination to encourage his words. There was just the right degree of modesty mixed with friendliness.

  “My dear,” he began, “you have my happiness in your keeping. Marie, I want to ask—”

  But at this point there was a terrific hooting of an automobile horn just outside the apartment house. To the surprise of Marie, the ardent wooer dropped her hand, and rising, walked over to the window. One look was sufficient, for turning to her, he exclaimed:

  “Pardon me, I’ll be back in a moment.”

  Before Marie realized what was going on, he had grabbed his hat and hurried from the room. She did not betray any emotion, disappointment or otherwise, but she evidently possessed the curiosity of her sex, because she went to the window and, raising the sash, looked below. It was worth while, for a curious performance was being enacted. An automobile had halted in front of the house. The driver had just finished taking the covering from a sandwich. Instead of tossing the oiled paper to one side, he rolled it into a small ball and then threw it, with great deliberation, over on the sidewalk. At the same moment, Mr. Percival Roberts, descending the steps of the house, reached over and picked up the discarded paper. The automobile, with a farewell honk-honk, dashed away, while Roberts, with simulated indifference, reëntered the house.

  Marie closed the window and sat down and awaited the return of the young man. Five minutes and then ten passed, and still he did not come back. Presently, with a look of determination on her face, she left the room and ascended the staircase in the direction of his apartment. It did not take long to reach the entrance to his attic room. The door, fortunately, was slightly ajar, and without the slightest compunction Marie pushed it open and entered.

  Roberts was not there. The room was empty. She glanced about hastily and noted the bareness of its furnishings. There was a small cot in a corner of the attic, but it seemed out of place because the room was fitted up more like an office than a place of habitation. A roll-top desk was against the wall and it was open, showing a mass of papers in much confusion as though the owner had left in a hurry. What did it all mean? Where had Percival Roberts gone? What was his occupation, and what was the meaning of his sudden agitation? Presently Marie noticed a light screen that shut off one corner of the attic. She had gone too far to retreat, and walking over, she moved the obstruction. She gave a gasp because she saw revealed a flight of steps, leading to a trap door that looked out on the roof. Slowly and cautiously she began to climb the ladder and continued until her head emerged into the outside air.

  “Zip-zip-zip” came from nearby, followed by a spluttering sound. She looked in that direction, and saw Roberts, his face white and concentrated, working at an instrument. Like a flash, the truth dawned on her. It was a wireless telegraph outfit and he was the operator. Summoning all her strength, she climbed on to the roof and stood there, supporting herself by holding on to the edge of the trap door. At that moment he looked up and saw her standing there like an accusing spirit. His face went white and his voice trembled:

  “What are you doing here?”

  The color had vanished from her countenance too, and her eyes danced with excitement. Nevertheless, she managed to speak composedly:

  “That is the very question I was going to ask you. What are you doing up here like a thief in the night?”

  He had evidently finished with his telegraphing, because he threw a cover over the outfit and advanced toward her in a threatening way. Her words had cut him like a whip, and he approached her shakily. Bewildered rage and childish fright seemed to be struggling for the mastery. He grabbed her by the wrist, and when he spoke again, it was in a thick, husky voice:

  “What do you mean by spying on me—what do you mean by creeping up that ladder—what are you doing here, anyhow?”

  She gave a long-drawn breath before she replied. Her hand, holding the edge of the trap door, trembled in spite of her effort to be composed, but presently she spoke in a voice that had a note of pathos in it.

  “Don’t—don’t you think that you are the one to explain? You leave me without a word of warning, and when I come to find you, I find you out on the roof, acting—acting like a criminal.”

  He pulled himself together. The look of half-dazed fury left his face. He loosened his hold on her wrist and spoke in low, tender tones:

  “Forgive me, Marie. I—I lost control of myself. You scared me for a moment. I’m sorry. Say that you’ll forgive me for my nasty outbreak.”

  She looked up at him with humid eyes. She seemed to be seeing him through a mist. But this passed quickly and she said:

  “That’s very well, but it doesn’t explain anything.”

  He placed his arm about her waist, and began to assist her gently down the rude ladder. He closed the trap door, and presently they stood facing one another in that attic room. The seconds seemed like minutes, and when he spoke it was in a slow voice, as though the words were being dragged from his reluctant lips:

  “Marie, I’m going to tell you what I would not tell another living soul. But—but you are entitled to know it. You have often asked me to tell you my occupation. You wondered what I did for—for a living. I’ll tell you. I’m engaged in secret service work.”

  He had locked the door before he began to speak, and she stood there now with her delicate fingers nervously handling the knob. She seemed to be quivering with terror. Then she raised a white hand and pointed it at him in a shaky manner.

  “You—you mean to say that you are a spy?”

  His face reddened. That look of bewildered rage
returned for a second, and then he said doggedly:

  “You can put it that way if you want to do so.”

  She stood for a moment, swaying with fright. Her voice was very low, and it quivered:

  “And in the face of this, you have dared to make love to me—you pretended to care for me.”

  He rushed over to where she stood and threw his arms about her in frantic fashion.

  “Oh, Marie, can’t you see that I have been doing it for you—can’t you see that I have been trying to earn the reward that will make us independent? I care for you more than anything in the world. If you care for me, nothing else matters. Say that I am forgiven. Say that you will be my wife.”

  Her face hardened at that, and she spoke with determination, with that air of decisiveness which he had admired in her so much.

  “If you care for me as much as you say, you will tell me everything. Tell me the truth. You must keep nothing from me. You were working against the United States, against your own country. Isn’t that a fact?”

  “Don’t put it that way. I’ll tell you everything. I have been representing another nation. You speak of my country. What does that mean? I owe nothing to the country. It has not even given me the chance of making a decent living. And patriotism! What is that? Merely a word. The work I have been doing will give me the means to keep you in comfort. We can go away and live in comfort for the rest of our lives.”

  “But a traitor,” she murmured, “to be married to a traitor!”

  “Please don’t talk like that,” he implored, “and think only that I am doing it for you. The thing we do for love cannot be wrong. And, Marie, I love you so much.”

  She melted at that and looked at him in a way that seemed to say that she might forgive the offense for the sake of the love. He grasped at his opportunity as a drowning man grasps at a straw. He led her to a chair and then began to fumble among the papers on his desk. Presently he secured a number of them in a package and he waved them in front of her dark gray eyes.